


"Happy Christmas, you wanker."

by cumbercollected



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas fic, Drunken Confessions, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Pre-Slash, Puppies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-10
Packaged: 2017-11-20 20:20:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumbercollected/pseuds/cumbercollected
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John share their first Christmas together since being reunited. A drunken Christmas Eve precedes a heartfelt gift exchange the following morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Happy Christmas, you wanker."

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: fluff ahead.  
> Written by Brooklynnx and EloiseAtThePlaza.  
> Edited by the pair of us. Any mistakes found are our own.  
> Merry/Happy Christmahanakwanzika!

“You can stare at that box for as long as you want, Sherlock. You’re never going to be able to figure out what’s inside before Christmas.”  
  
Sherlock was scowling at the only gift that was currently under the tree. It was a bright red box with an equally vibrant green bow to match. Colours that would have been an awful contrast had it not been for the holidays.  
  
“I’m the world’s only consulting detective, John. I could deduce what’s inside that box in precisely four minutes and forty-eight seconds if I wanted to. But I won’t.”  
  
John cocked a half smile; it was a look of amused curiosity, one that he often sported whenever he had no idea what his flatmate was going on about. Because why would the great Sherlock Holmes refuse an opportunity to solve a puzzle? An obnoxiously wrapped puzzle made out to him, no less? “Why not?”  
  
It didn’t take Sherlock’s superior intellect to surmise that John had grown up with strong family traditions, Christmas being one of the most special. Naturally John had insisted upon getting the tree and decorating it properly, about placing presents under the branches and draping fairy lights above the mantelpiece. Their first and only Christmas party had been John’s idea, too, wanting their friends to be together in one place to celebrate. That hadn’t been their most successful gathering, what with Sherlock’s insults directed at Greg and Molly and The Woman’s supposed death. Since it was his first Christmas at Baker Street after his three-year absence, he wanted to make it count where it mattered. “Sentiment.”  
  
John hummed in appreciation of Sherlock’s answer, however fleeting an attempt it was at sentiment. He watched as Sherlock continued to stare at the brightly coloured box he had placed under their tree. It was a small fir tree, nothing special, decorated with faulty lights and cheap ornaments that Mrs. Hudson had lent them. “Nice answer but it won’t do you any good. Seeing as there’s nothing inside the box.”  
  
Sherlock gave John a look of sudden perplexity, a single eyebrow arched and his mouth curved downward in a slight frown. “Nothing inside it?” he asked. “Why would you put it under the tree if there’s nothing inside it? Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of opening it?” Sherlock was often the one answering questions, but sometimes John surprised him--something that Sherlock always appreciated, as he was a hard man to surprise.  
  
“Let me rephrase: there’s nothing inside it yet. I--”  
  
“No, stop,” Sherlock interjected, putting his hand up in protest. “Don’t tell me. The more you tell me, the easier I’ll be able to guess.”  
  
“And why don’t you want to guess?”  
  
Sherlock gave a small shrug of his shoulders and his lips quirked up into a coy, earnest smile; it was his second time admitting to something he often considered a weakness.  “Sentiment.”  
  
John mirrored Sherlock’s shrug of the shoulders. It was just as well. The more surprised Sherlock was when the time came to open his present, the more pleased John would be to watch it all happen.  
  
“Are we having a party this year, John?” Sherlock wasn’t one for company...although he no longer believed that being alone saved him. Because he felt more alive with John back in his life than he had ever felt before, their time apart having opened Sherlock’s eyes to how important a friendship could be.  
  
And more.  
  
“Dunno. Personally I think it would be nice to celebrate by ourselves. Something quiet, no visitors. The last Christmas party we had wasn’t exactly a success, as you’re well aware.” John gave Sherlock a knowing look.  
  
“Oh, and I suppose that’s my fault, is it?”    
  
“Lestrade drank all the eggnog, Molly left in tears and Jeanette...well, you couldn’t even remember her name. You spoiled the evening for most in attendance.”  
  
“It’s not my fault that you don’t date memorable women.”  
  
“No, but it is your fault that you can’t drop an issue and move on, you wanker.”  
  
"Says the man who agreed to be my flatmate and then proceeded to mourn my death for three years.” Sherlock regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth. “Bit not good?”  
  
“More than a bit not good.” John stood from his armchair and made his way into the kitchen, leaving Sherlock to pick up his violin. In situations such as these he found that making tea gave him something to do besides stew in his own thoughts. It calmed him, distracted him, restored some semblance of balance to the situation if not in all of its entirety.  
  
Of course Sherlock hadn’t been able resist bringing up a still touchy subject as a comeback to what John had meant to be a joke, nothing more. He highly esteemed his best friend, and his loyalty had only intensified during the time they’d spent apart. Sherlock had risked his life to save John’s- a selfless gesture, devoid of any ill intent.  
  
Sherlock began to play ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’, the music creating a soothing atmosphere in the flat. He silently gazed out the window, unable to offer John a reply as a strange emotion called guilt crept up in his throat.  
  
There was something picturesque about Sherlock standing there, by the lit-up tree, playing a festive tune. It filled the flat, and made it as happy as it did sad--remembering how empty it had been without Sherlock there, how utterly lonely. And yet, there the man was, wearing his purple button-down and black slacks, as if he had never left.  
  
John’s body was instantly warmed by the tea, as was his mood. Christmas was a time to be thankful for one’s possessions, friends, and family. It was a time to overlook the negative and embrace the positive. It gave John a sense of comfort that yes, this was all real and that yes, Sherlock was here. He was fine. It was all fine.  
  
With this in mind John returned to the sitting room, hovering under the artificial light of the tree as he listened to Sherlock continue to play. He hit the notes beautifully, his bow moving in such a steady, sensual rhythm that made the playing seem so simple, so natural. His eyes closed, the music became a part of him. It flowed through John’s body, and, upon hitting his ears, through his centre. Sherlock electrified every fibre of his being, and John realised how much he had missed the man’s playing, even when it had woken him up at ungodly hours of the morning.  
  
“I’m sorry,” John confessed, raking a hand through his already disheveled hair. The music came to a sudden halt, Sherlock’s bow suspended above the instrument’s strings. “I shouldn’t have said that. You’re not...you’re not that.”  
  
“A wanker?” Sherlock asked with a grin, clearly not insulted. He didn’t glance behind him at John, content to continue his perusal of the deserted street below.  “I hope not.”  
  
John gave a small smile. “I’m glad we’re able to spend this Christmas together. I want to enjoy this, all right?” In spite of his small amount of lingering frustration John stepped forward and clapped Sherlock on the shoulder in an act of appeasement. “Forgive me?”  
  
Sherlock chuckled, turning around to finally look John in the eye. “You know I’m the one who needs forgiving.” He wasn’t completely convinced he had earned it all from John yet, but he wouldn’t stop trying.

* * *

  
It was snowing. It made the night feel all the more festive--all the more special. John had on his ugly Christmas sweater, although it was unclear whether he wore it despite its hideous nature because he was amused by it or because he took the ‘holiday spirit’ much too seriously. Probably both.  
  
Either way, Sherlock was too pissed to care. His idea of celebrating the evening with spiked eggnog had been warmly received by John, even though he’d been a bit surprised. John had then whipped up a quick recipe for the beverage while Sherlock spent a half hour regaling him with the stories of what had transpired during his absence, including his discovery of alcohol whilst tracking Moran in Russia.  
  
“Russia? You went all the way to bloody Russia?”  
  
“I needed to make sure I was thorough. I needed to keep everyone safe,” he said in between rather large gulps. “Moran was the second most dangerous man in London.”  
  
“You must’ve froze your bloody arse off.”  
  
It was strange, just the two of them alone in the flat together celebrating Christmas Eve. Even Mrs. Hudson was away at her sister’s. There weren’t any guests, any pointless conversations. No threat of a ruined evening--well, Sherlock knew he always ran the risk of doing just that. But John understood him better than anyone else. That was why those three years had been so difficult.  
  
“I can’t believe tomorrow’s Christmas,” John mused, taking Sherlock’s glass in hand as he unsteadily got to his feet to top the both of their drinks off. “It feels like November’s only just ended.” His relaxed smile dissipated as he refilled their glasses. “It’s funny...when you were gone the months just dragged on. Now, time flies--” he cut himself off short. “Sorry. I know you don’t like to talk about it.”  
  
Sherlock took his glass from John as the other rejoined him on the sofa. “It’s not that I don’t like to talk about it, John,” he admitted.  
  
“What, then?”  
  
Sherlock directed his attention toward the fireplace, his gaze even and his face expressionless- a stark contrast to the bright flames that flickered in the hearth. “I hurt you. I made you hurt for a long time. Back then it seemed so necessary, but now that it’s over and done with I wish I had done things differently.”  
  
“That’s behind us now,” John said, determined to restore the cheerful mood they’d had before this subject had reared its ugly head. “The important thing is that you’re back.” John hit the rims of their glasses together in a toast, the small sound echoing in the silence of their flat. “And that’s worth celebrating. Happy Christmas, Sherlock.”  
  
Ah, yes. Christmas. Eyes roaming to the tree, Sherlock was bothered by the lack of a present in the box that was settled underneath. Unable to take his mind off of it, he had crept out in the early hours of the morning to shake it, yet there’d been no shifting of the contents inside. He’d placed it back where he had found it, and that was where it would sit until tomorrow morning when John finally allowed him to open his gift. His curiosity would finally be quenched--much like his thirst for eggnog. Sherlock helped himself to another decent-sized gulp, pleased to observe that John followed suit.  
  
“Will you play your violin?” John asked, breaking their companionable silence of a few minutes.  
  
“Something festive, I imagine?” Sherlock asked as he set his glass on the coffee table. He stumbled a bit as he stood, exerting a valiant effort to regain his centre of gravity. John chuckled at his flatmate’s lack of balance, waiting patiently as Sherlock picked up the stringed instrument, tuned the strings a bit and, without any sort of formal introduction, began to play ‘O Holy Night.’  
  
Sherlock tended to focus on nothing outside of his mind when he played, allowing the music to invade his senses in order for his thoughts to collect themselves. But as he played this time he found himself glancing intermittently at the man sitting on the sofa. Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time he’d played for an audience. Perhaps it had been Christmas three years ago.  
  
John leisurely nursed his glass of eggnog, his head cocked to the side and his eyes closed as he absorbed the music. The sitting room was cast in shadow and Sherlock’s silhouette danced across the floorboards as he coaxed different notes out of the instrument with a subtle tilt of the bow. It was incredibly intimate, this moment. He’d say it was romantic but then, they weren’t a couple. Never had been. But that didn’t mean it was any less memorable. He would remember this exact moment for years to come--that is, if the alcohol didn’t spoil the memory for him.  
  
When Sherlock finished, he looked over at John with a playful, mock-expectant look. “What, no applause?”  
  
John startled slightly, too engrossed in how perfect of an evening they were having to realise that Sherlock had ended the song. “Erm, sorry. It was lovely. Well done,” he reassured, raising his glass in Sherlock’s direction.  
  
Sherlock arched a brow. “Are you happy, John?” It may have been a strange question, but Sherlock knew how much John loved the holidays. And this Christmas was different.  
  
“Yeah. I am. Very happy, in fact. Thank you...for this. All of this,” he gestured about the room, almost spilling some eggnog on himself in the process. The casualty of his ugly sweater wouldn’t have been mourned. “It means a lot.”  
  
Sherlock managed a smile, despite the fact that discussions such as these weren’t his strong suit. “It’s different from our last Christmas together,” he said, standing there before John, holding his violin at his side, the light of the tree casting an ethereal glow over his face. “I know you enjoyed the party. As much as anyone could, given the fact that I’m an unsocialised wanker.”  
  
“I like this better. Less going on. I don’t have to pretend to be someone I’m not when I’m around you. I suppose that’s the benefit of celebrating holidays with close friends instead of work acquaintances or new love interests.”  
  
“Why would you need to pretend you’re someone else?” Sherlock, clearly, had never tried. His lack of self-restraint and proper social etiquette hadn’t driven away John, though, as it had with so many others.  
  
“I have more at stake with people I’m not particularly close to. I want to give them the right impression, you know. I don’t need to with you, so it hardly matters.”  
  
“I disagree. I have more at stake.”  
  
“Oh, you do, do you?”  
  
“Yes. You.” Sherlock moved to sit beside John on the sofa, resting his violin carefully on the empty seat beside him. “I don’t need anyone to have the right impression of me but you. You’re the only one that matters.” Sherlock had never understood why John cared so much about the opinions of others. As long as John knew who he was, Sherlock could forget about the rest of the world.  
  
“You matter to me, too. Even though you can be an utter wanker sometimes, as I’ve pointed out before.”  
  
“At this point, you’ve used that insult so many times I think I may actually have cause for concern.” Sherlock gave a teasing grin, picking up his eggnog from its precarious position on the edge of the coffee table. Was this his third glass? Or his fourth? Either way, it was nearly empty.  
  
“I disagree,” John countered, repeating Sherlock’s earlier words. He let out an indelicate burp as he waited for Sherlock to reply.  
  
“Please, enlighten me, then.”  
  
“You shouldn’t be worried about me using that insult. I’ve used it so many times that it’s become a term of endearment instead.”  
  
“Ah, yes, of course,” Sherlock quipped. “Because the word ‘wanker’ is obviously affectionate.”  
  
“It all depends on one’s inflection, Sherlock,” John put in.  
  
Off in the distance, Big Ben began its countdown. They silently counted the chimes together, simply sitting in silence with the glow of the Christmas tree illuminating their faces. The last knell rang out, echoing throughout the heart of London. Midnight. It was officially Christmas morning.  
  
John grabbed his nearly-empty glass, holding it up as he waited for Sherlock to join him.  
  
“Happy Christmas, John.”  
  
“Happy Christmas, you wanker.”

* * *

  
Christmas morning started out just like any other for John except for the addition of a hangover-fueled headache. He woke up with the sun, made a cup of tea, checked his blog. Harry had left not one but two drunken replies to the latest post he’d published. Apparently he wasn’t the only one who’d had an interesting Christmas Eve.  
  
Sherlock still wasn’t up by the time John left the flat with the unopened Christmas box under his arm. It was hardly a surprise, considering the lunatic was always wide awake in the middle of the night and would also be nursing a hangover after last night’s eggnog endeavours. They had both gotten so thoroughly pissed at the end that Sherlock had actually _suggested_ they bake Christmas biscuits as a late night treat. They’d almost burnt down the flat, the biscuits had fried to a black crisps and there was still an inch of baking flour spread across the kitchen’s linoleum floor but it had been worth it for the laughs they had shared. John couldn’t help but feel that they’d shared more than just laughs. It had been a truly honest evening.  
  
As he arrived back at the flat and carefully set the present under the tree, Sherlock came into the kitchen with a stumble, using the wall as support. Sherlock wasn’t accustomed to the feeling of a hangover. The pounding headache, the stomach-curling nausea coursing through his entire body. He felt like he needed to drink out of a waterfall in order to quench his dehydration. He didn’t say a single word to John as he opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. He nearly chugged it in its entirety.  
  
“Better?” asked John.  
  
Sherlock nodded, wiping the excess water from his upper lip with the back of his hand. “Much,” he replied. “Happy Christmas, John.”  
  
“Happy Christmas. How are you faring this morning?”  
  
“I’m not sure. I’ve never had a hangover before. I’ll need more data in order to properly assess it.” He put the empty water bottle back in the fridge. “Put the kettle on.”  
  
“You do it for once. Christmas spirit and all,” John grumbled, his eyes shifting towards the box as soon as Sherlock’s back was turned away from sitting room.  
  
Sherlock nearly pouted. “Despite my hangover? Fine. Consider this one of your presents.”  
  
“I get more than one present?” John smiled, his eyes lighting up in obvious pleasure. “Who are you and what have you done with the grumpy, consulting wanker Sherlock Holmes?”  
  
“I think he’s off watching your ‘secret’ porn collection.” Sherlock grinned, apparently happy with himself that he could deliver an insult, too. He grabbed two cups, filling one with two spoonfuls of sugar. “You really need to re-work your password, by the way.”  
  
“Duly noted. I’ll change it as soon as we exchange presents,” John shot back, making his way into the living room, taking up a seat in his well-worn armchair as he waited for Sherlock to bring the tea.  
  
“Don’t bother. You know I’ll just guess it again.” Sherlock followed John, handing him his cup. “Your history had quite a few hits on The Woman’s website,” he smirked as he sat down in the armchair across from John. “Doing research, were you?”  
  
“Purely scientific, you understand.”  
  
“Of course it was,” Sherlock grinned, bringing his feet up onto the cushion of the armchair, snuggling himself into as much of a ball as he could, like a cat. He leaned his elbow on the armrest, sipping his steaming tea.  
  
“Enough about that. Would you like to open your present?” John asked. By this point he could barely suppress his excitement and it obviously showed by the way Sherlock cocked an inquisitive eyebrow.  
  
“Ah, yes. The ever-mysterious Christmas box,” Sherlock said, putting his cup down on the side table. “All right, John, I’ll open it.” He got up from his seat and, like a child, sat down, cross-legged on the floor next to the tree. John joined him on the carpet. It didn’t escape Sherlock’s attention that his flatmate still favoured his left leg whenever he moved into a sitting position. It had been cured within such a short time of the two of them first meeting, but his three-year leave had brought it back. It seemed it would take more time for old wounds to heal.  
  
John hefted the box into his arms, its weight considerably heavier than it had been earlier this morning with nothing inside. He held it out for Sherlock to see. “I’ll hold, you unwrap.”  
  
“I’m not even allowed to hold the box?” Sherlock asked as he fingered the bow on top. John seriously did not want him to know the contents of the box until he removed the lid. Glancing curiously at his flatmate sitting across from him, he pulled the bow off, wrangling it from the edges of the box. His eyes met John’s the second before his hands came to the lid, lifting it off and casting it aside.  
  
“A puppy?”  
  
Peering down, the consulting detective simply stared at the living creature sleeping inside, small enough to fit within the confines of the large box. He reached inside and gently brought the puppy out, lifting the animal as he analysed every detail.  
  
“English Bulldog, known as Britain’s national dog breed and named after John Bull. First entered the show ring in 1860.  Member of the Utility Group with a non-sporting origin.” As he spoke, he cradled its tiny body, inspecting the pup at different angles as he moved his hands. “Brachycephalic head type. Male. Brindle and short-haired coat. Approximately eight weeks old. Lifespan under ten years.” He bounced the puppy in his hands as he calculated the maths in his head. “Currently weighs approximately eight kilograms, will be around twenty-five when full grown--”  
  
“Yeah, that’s nice. Do you like him?” John interrupted, no longer able to contain his excitement.  
  
Sherlock looked up at John, as if just noticing that the man was still there. “Like him?” he echoed. “Oh, yes. Yes. He’s...cute.” That was the proper term, wasn’t it? Cute? He held the puppy to his chest, a small smile on his face.  
  
“Hang on, did you just say the word ‘cute?’”  
  
“Yes. Yes, I did. Won’t happen again, so savour the moment.” He put the pup in his lap, and the white and brown animal simply laid there, completely at home. “I’m impressed you got Mrs. Hudson to agree to let us get a dog.”  
  
John spluttered on his tea. “Christ! I didn’t even think to ask her about whether animals are allowed on the lease!”  
  
Sherlock chuckled. “I’ve shot the wall and there has been a human head in the fridge, John. I highly doubt she is going to give us trouble over a dog.”  
  
John relaxed just a bit. It was true. If Mrs. Hudson hadn’t kicked them out for keeping spare body parts in the fridge, he highly doubted she’d do anything more than scold them about their canine addition to the household. “What are you going to name him, then?”  
  
“Rubidium?”  
  
“What the-- what? Why?” As if John needed to question why Sherlock Holmes’ mind immediately went to chemistry.  
  
“Rubidium has a soft, silvery-white--”  
  
“You are _not_ naming our dog after a chemical element, Sherlock.”  
  
“I thought he was my dog. Why can’t I name him what I want?”  
  
“He’s not going to be your dog anymore when I’m the one left to clean up after him.”  
  
“Fine.” Point taken. Sherlock already knew John would be the one in charge of taking the puppy for walks at the park. If John still had his limp that would have been even more ironic. For a moment Sherlock chuckled at the image in his head, but then he stopped himself as he realised that would be categorised under ‘not good’. Sherlock looked at the puppy in determined concentration. “Then...what about Baskerville? The hounds, get it? Our case.”  
  
John let out a sarcastic laugh. “Oh, right. The case where you locked me in that bloody lab and I almost died of a panic attack? It was traumatic. What a fitting namesake for our dog, Sherlock. Well done.”  
  
“Don’t be dramatic,” Sherlock grinned as he rubbed the folds on the pup’s head, massaging him until his beady eyes closed. “You were nowhere near ‘almost dying.’ Simply a bit...worked up.”  
  
“Worked up. Right,” John repeated before taking a calming sip of tea to clear his head. It was Christmas. Bad attitudes were a no-go. “What about something totally unrelated to chemistry or cases? Something boring, by your standards.” His eyes wandered to the bookshelf behind Sherlock’s armchair and scanned the titles.  
  
“Politics?” Sherlock suggested. He wished Mycroft was present, just so his comment could be taken as an insult. For a moment he wondered if he should call him. It was Christmas, after all...but they didn’t really do those sorts of things.  
  
John nodded his approval. “Prime Ministers or Kings? Prime Ministers, I should think. The names are less repetitive.”  
  
“I agree. We don’t want to be calling our dog King George III.” He considered his limited knowlege of prominent public figures a moment. “Churchill?” Sherlock said as the first thing that came to his mind.  
  
“No, that’s the go-to name for an English Bulldog. How about...Baldwin?”  
  
Sherlock had never had an interest in politics. It was all just useless information. Knowing who was Prime Minister wouldn’t alter his day-to-day activities in the slightest. Sherlock also enjoyed how his ignorance in all things politics drove Mycroft up the wall. “Who?”  
  
“The bloke before Chamberlain.”  
  
Sherlock shook his head. The Bulldog in his lap didn’t look like a Baldwin. He couldn’t imagine himself calling for Baldwin when he came home from an experiment at Bart’s. “No.”  
  
“Alright, alright.” John wracked his brain, trying to remember the names of the obscure prime ministers he’d studied during secondary school. “Gladstone? As in William Ewart?”  
  
“Gladstone?” Sherlock thought about it for a moment, and picked up the puppy, holding him at eye level. The two looked at one another, as if Sherlock was searching for the dog’s opinion on the matter. “Gladstone. I like it.”  
  
“It suits him, I think,” John agreed, watching the pair of them together. Sherlock was rubbing his hand over Gladstone’s back, lost in thought. Although still suspended over the ground in Sherlock’s grasp, Gladstone was already lulled back to sleep by the feel of a strong, warm hand caressing his fur.  
  
“I wonder if Lestrade would let us to bring him on cases. Sherlock Holmes and his police dog. You know Anderson and Donovan would have a fit. They can barely tolerate it when I’m allowed past the yellow tape.” Sherlock smiled, and passed Gladstone over to his flatmate. “Hold him a moment. It’s time for you to open your present.”  
  
John waited patiently as Sherlock crouched under the tree, manhandling the low-hanging branches as he searched for his expertly-hidden present. It wasn’t neatly wrapped. The white underside of the colored paper was showing on some corners, which were crunched and forced over instead of neatly pressed.  
  
“Happy Christmas,” Sherlock said, passing it over to John. Sherlock’s palms were almost sweaty with nerves. Gift-giving--it was all a big part of sentiment that the consulting detective was not familiar with. But it was familiar to John, and Sherlock wanted this to be a wonderful holiday for him. Sherlock felt as though he owed John that much.  
  
John held the box in his hands, trying to ascertain what was inside by shaking it slightly and holding it up to his ears. He gave up after a few moments--realistically he’d never be able to guess what was inside. This was a present from the least predictable man in all of London, after all.  
  
Underneath the wrapping paper was a black leather box which smelled like the inside of a new car. John gave Sherlock a look of intrigue before he opened the box’s attached lid. At first it looked like a gag-gift, the inside of a child’s toy chest. John picked up one of the several trinkets inside, finding a silver key chain with a photograph of Saint Basil's Cathedral in Moscow.  
  
“I bought you a souvenir from every place I visited while I was tracking Moran.” Sherlock felt the need to explain. This sentiment business was so strange. He felt immature, as if he’d be seen as foolish for such a gesture. ““It was what kept me sane, knowing I would see you again to give you these things. And I never really had an opportune moment to give you them until now.”  
  
“Sherlock, this is...amazing,” John marvelled, taking each trinket in hand. He was quiet for a while as he took in all of the landmarks he recognised from the assortment of souvenirs. Paris, Istanbul, Reykjavik? Sherlock had practically visited every country in Eurasia. And every city he’d visited he had thought of John.  
  
Sherlock smiled, watching John go through the box, each item having its own story behind it. But each story shared the heartache of their time spent apart. “Not as cute as a puppy, I’m afraid.”  
  
John cleared his throat as he gingerly tucked a refrigerator magnet of the Sistine chapel back inside the velvet interior of the box. “Always one-upping me, even when it comes to Christmas presents,” he joked, though it came out as less playful since an uncomfortable lump had formed in the back of his throat.  
  
“Hardly,” Sherlock said evenly. “Because giving you all those things means I was at each of those places without you. The puppy will have a much better backstory, wouldn’t you agree?”  
  
John covered Gladstone’s ears, shielding the dog from what he was about to say. “A happier backstory, maybe. But you went to all of those places to protect me, Sherlock. That means more than words can say. No one...no one has ever given me something like this before. Thank you.”  
  
Sherlock smiled. “I’m glad you like it. It was either this or a sweater, and you’re well-stocked on those.” He laughed, and suddenly Sherlock felt a strong urge for physical contact--just a touch of the hand, a connection. John was the only person he had ever had a connection with, the only one he had ever really come to care for. Having one person in his life that meant almost everything...he wasn’t sure if he would have taken Moriarty’s deal if John’s life hadn’t been on the line. He adored Mrs. Hudson in his own way, and Lestrade was likeable enough. But John...God, if anything ever happened to him...  
  
Maybe, now, Sherlock knew how John had felt for three entire, lonely years. Sherlock had missed John to the point of a physical pain in his chest, but he had been distracted chasing down Moran. John had been here all by himself with just the memory of Sherlock Holmes.  
  
Cradling Gladstone in one arm, John bridged the gap between his spot on the floor and Sherlock’s. He leant in and placed his palm atop the back of Sherlock’s hand. “You don’t have to say anything. Just know this has been the best Christmas I’ve had in recent memory, by far.” As if expecting Sherlock’s retort, no doubt a mention of the inanity of ‘sentiment’, John was quick to continue. “You can scoff all you want about feelings and emotions but...God, Sherlock, you must understand how much this means to me?” he asked, gesturing to the leather box.  
  
Sherlock tried swallowing down a bubble of awkwardness, but it stayed in his throat, threatening to suffocate him until his face turned blue. For once, Sherlock Holmes was speechless. He wasn’t sure what words he could possibly say that would truly express how he was feeling, probably because he had no idea what on earth it was that he was feeling. Caring wasn’t a word in Sherlock’s extensive vocabulary. At least, it wasn’t one he used often.  
  
Caring was a weakness. Caring didn’t do anything to save John. Action did. Chasing down Moran and the rest of Moriarty’s followers, that saved John. So why was this ‘caring’ thing finding its way inside of Sherlock, forcing itself down his throat?  
  
“I...do,” Sherlock said, uncertain. “At least, I think I do?”  
  
John gave Sherlock’s hand another squeeze. He understood. He didn’t understand a fraction of all the things going on in Sherlock’s head but he could understand the silence between them just fine. It wasn’t entirely uncomfortable but it wasn’t companionable, either. It was simply an acknowledgement of everything that was being left unsaid.  
  
“I think I’m finally starting to understand this,” Sherlock muttered. “This ‘sentiment’ business. It’s not easy.”  
  
“No,” John agreed, “Especially because you’ve been against it for so long. But I hope you find that it’s worth it.”  
  
Sherlock looked at the tree, all lit up and creating such a warm glow in their flat. He looked at Gladstone, who was snuggled into John’s lap, seemingly never to move again. And then he looked at John, the man he had wanted to protect so badly that he had sacrificed three years of his life. Sherlock looked down at their hands, still touching, still connected. He shifted his wrist, fingers intertwining with John’s until they were laced together, fitting like a perfect puzzle. And how Sherlock loved solving puzzles. He met John’s eyes and gave the man a rare, genuine and happy smile. “I think it already is.”


End file.
